Education of a knave
by Tarja the wind witch
Summary: After recovering from his terrible encounter with Asmodeus, Slagar moves to the city. There he will join experienced rogues to hone his criminal skills and prepare for vengeance. Rating may rise. Chapter 2 is up! Please R
1. At the gates

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own any original character of the Redwall saga. I just own the plot and the many OCs.**

This story is about Slagar, formerly known as Chickenhound, and the years between his scaly accident and the events narrated in Mattimeo.  
There will be crime, fights and general darkness: this story is about a villain, after all.  
You have been warned!

**Enjoy!  
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The young, scrawny and rag-clad fox was astonished.  
The inland gates of the main port of the region were bigger than Redwall's main gate, which had been enormous itself in his own recollections.  
So much for country life, he thought bitterly.  
The animals of the forest knew nothing of real life: the so-called peace of the woods was nothing compared with the unlimited opportunities provided by the city.  
This was the place where fortunes were made and undone, where one's talent and will could be recognized and rewarded.  
This was the place where he would start anew.

Slightly limping, leaning on a pilgrim's staff for support, the young fox approached the Mud Gate, as it was called because of the muddy grounds along the river next to which the gate stood.  
It was guarded by two soldiers, fully armored and armed with halberds, who inspected the crowd of people entering the city.  
The other gates must be equally guarded, he mused, but for once he did not want to check.  
After a month of traveling through the damned Mossflower forest and then following the blasted river, he felt exhausted and was more than willing to forsake his usual caution and make a try at the gate.  
There was not much time to spare, anyways.  
The gates closed at sunset, which was swiftly approaching, and the last thing he wanted was sleeping another night outside.  
Winter was coming and then nights were getting steadily colder.

The young scrawny fox straightened the mud-stained, ragged excuses for clothes he wore and headed towards the gate.  
He tried to look as inconspicuous as possible, but his appearance was surely, well, remarkable.  
The young fox perceived some movement on the right side of the gate and turned slightly to get it into the field of vision of his only good eye.  
It was one of the guards, a big, bulky dog.  
The soldier pointed his halberd toward him and barked. "Stop at once and remove your mask. - he ordered coldly – No one is allowed to enter the city gates with his face concealed."

The fox stopped and sighed: he should have foreseen this obstacle.  
It was a logical measure of security, he could understand that, but there was no way he would uncover his face in public.  
He could try to talk the guard out of his request.  
"Please, sir, let me in." he whined, trying to sound meek and humble, but his voice came out as a harsh and raspy whisper, nothing too friendly.  
It was almost two years since he had last talked to anyone, he remembered.  
"I am just a poor war refugee, who has lost everything..." he insisted.  
Had he not forgotten how it was done, he would have cried to reinforce his act, but the guard remained unmoved and inflexible.  
"Listen, you tramp. - he barked, shoving the fox back – Either you show me your face at once, or I kick you into the river. Understood?"  
The young fox said nothing, his mind was already working furiously on an alternative strategy.  
The gate was just ahead of him, he could as well make a dash for it and shake the guards off in the alleys of the city.  
The dogs were burdened by their armor and he had always been a fast runner, but he knew nothing of the disposition of the city and, besides, he was not in the right conditions for a run.  
The young fox had decided against the newly-concocted plan, when the guard shoved him again rudely and yelled: "Are you deaf as well as filthy, you beggar scum? Get those rags off your face or get lost."

"As you wish, sir. Have a good look at my face." the fox whispered ominously, hastily untying the knots that fastened his makeshift mask and tearing it away. He hissed in discomfort as the rough cloth rubbed against the ruined remnants of his face.  
The terrible humiliation he felt at having to reveal his deformity was somehow compensated by the look of revulsion and disgust painted on the guard's face.  
The tough dog looked like he was going to throw up, he wanted to look away, that much was clear, but he could not stop looking, captured by a macabre fascination.  
The fox felt almost like smiling.  
He did it, curving his mouth in a mirthless smirk, knowing well the weird and horrible effect it would produce.  
"Is this enough?" he hissed mockingly, locking his stare with the guard's.  
The dog nodded a little too fast, eyes wide open and pupils enlarged like he was in shock, and averted his gaze.  
A gust of wind hit them and the fox had to suppress a whimper as the ruined side of his face contracted painfully because of the cold.  
He had started to hate winter.  
"Are you satisfied?" he asked, calmly retying his mask.  
The guard sputtered something, clearly at a loss about what to say, so the fox profited of his indecision to bypass him and enter through the gate.  
"Good afternoon to you too, brave soldier." he mocked loudly and started to laugh, a mad cackle tinted with bitterness but also satisfaction.

He had overcame the first obstacle and was inside the city, finally.  
Here he would rebuild his life, a step at a time, on the way to glory and vengeance.  
His stomach rumbled audibly.  
The first step would be finding somewhere to eat a proper meal, it seemed.


	2. Mad Otter Tavern

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own any original character from the Redwall saga. I just own the plot and the OCs.**

A warning to readers: having read just Redwall and Mattimeo I do not have a deep knowledge of what is canon and what not, so I beg your pardon in advance for any blunders I may make in future.  
If you find any mistake or anything that clashed with canon, please feel free to tell me by reviewing or sending me a PM.  
**Thanks in advance**.

**Enjoy!**

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Though he had never been there before, the young fox knew with good approximation where to go.  
He just had to follow the most miserable vermin in the crowd and he would surely find a suitable place to blend in.  
Besides, he remembered the stories his mother told him about the city.  
She had spent some time there before he was born, after joining a circus, and had the time of her life.  
She told him about the powerful criminal gangs which had a free hand in the poorest districts and how the situation perfectly suited an enterprising fox such as she was.  
Unfortunately, a series of circumstances put on the provost's seat a stubborn and righteous badger, who had put in his thick mind that it was his duty to rid the city of criminals.  
A thorough cleansing followed so his mother and her tribe had to flee as soon as possible, lest they were put in prison or hanged, as had been the fate of many thieves and rogues all around the city.

Some times, when she had drunk more than her fill or was feeling particularly melancholy, she would tell him about his father: a fascinating pirate she had met there, who loved her very much but disappeared in the sea, she would say.  
An idiot braggart who had run away or managed to drown, he had always thought bitterly.

Even following his thoughts, he managed to pay attention to his surroundings. He navigated warily through the crowd, trying to act as if he was perfectly at home there, when in fact he was overawed by the sheer amount of people in the streets.  
He had never seen so many people massed together in his all life, well, with the notable exception of Cluny's army.  
He felt rage rise at the thought: he might have thought his mother was an oaf sometimes, but she had raised him alone and had been the center of his life.  
She had saved him from her grave, with her medicine.  
And the rats had killed her before his eyes.  
Only now he realized he had never mourned her properly, more likely cursed her all the way to the deepest hell for having left him alone with his unbearable pain.

The cold wind was intensifying, and with it the pain radiating from his muzzle to his head.  
He knew it would become stronger by the hour, until it was blinding and nauseating, forcing him to find a shelter and stay down until it passed.  
Even trough the throbbing in his muzzle, he readily perceived an idiot ratling trying to slip a hand under his ragged cloak to cut his purse.  
Could not have more then twelve summers, the brat - he thought, annoyed - and he couldn't even do it properly.  
Without a second thought he grabbed the rat's wrist and pulled him off balance, making him fall to the ground.  
"Learn better before you try again, you brat." he hissed to the frightened and ashamed rat.  
He gave a last look to the oaf and walked away.  
Just a kid, he thought dismissively.  
To tell the truth, he was no more than sixteen, but he hardened and cynical beyond his young age.

A sharp turn into a dark alley brought him into a closed court with a well in the middle.  
The buildings surrounding it were a little musty and shabby, but there was a tavern, its lurid sign hanging from the wall said "Mad Otter Tavern: rooms for rent." and from its windows came the nice glow of fire and a delicious smell of food.  
He did not know if it was a safe place to stay the night but he was too tired to scout any longer, he just wanted to eat something warm and decent and find a place to rest before the pain turned him into a trembling and whimpering wreck.

Having already decided that the place would be perfect, the masked fox pushed the door open and entered into a smoky torch-lit common room with a low ceiling.  
The patrons, not many due to the early hour, turned briefly to have a look at him, scrutinized him, searching for potential money or threats, then, satisfied by the inspection, turned their attention back to their meals or conversations.  
The young fox dropped on a chair at a corner table, where he could keep his only good eye on the remaining people in the room.  
The innkeeper, a fat stoat with a filthy apron tied around his prominent belly was busy at the counter, serving mugfuls of beer to a loud group of rats sated next to the fireplace.  
They were commemorating something, it was evident, cheering loudly and drinking too much.

After a short wait, he beckoned to a serving wench which had just brought a bowl of food to the table next to his.  
She collected the money from the other patron and hurried to his table.  
"We don't give credit." the girl snapped, eyeing his clothes.  
The masked fox smirked under his mask and made a silver coin appear, almost magically, between his fingers.  
"I was not going to ask. - he replied, harshly – Bring me some decent food and wine and ask your boss for a room."  
He tossed the coin to the servant, who readily caught it, nodded and hurried to the counter.

The masked fox gave the room a circular look, worried about the other customers.  
If they thought he had money, they could as well assault him during the night and if he had to take some pain-killing potion, he would be almost absolutely defenceless.  
He had not narrowly escaped death twice just to have his throath slit in some seedy tavern.  
Fortunately no one apparently noticed his show of wealth, busy as they were eating and drinking.  
The masked fox relaxed a little and sighed: he was safe, for the time being.

After a while the serving wench returned with a bowl full to the brim with a questionable fish soup, a bread chunk and a pitcher of red wine.  
He nodded a thank you and began eating ravenously.  
He was terribly hungry and the food was hot and tasted delicious; probably it was just edible at most, but it was the first food in two years that he had not had to catch, prepare and cook on his own.  
The serving wench gave him a disapproving look shook her head.  
"After you finish ask Betsy to show you the room. - she instructed with an annoyed voice – She's the fat ferret with the blue kerchief on her head."  
The fox nodded again and returned his attention to the soup.  
"Damned tramp!" the woman muttered, returning to her chores.  
He heard her but payed no heed to her insults, as he was feeling too good to spoil his mood with an argument and besides, he was dressed in rags and eating like he had not had any food in weeks.  
Probably he deserved the 'compliment'.

His week-long hunger finally sated, he finished finished the soup with a cretain degree of calm and mopped the bowl with the coarse brown bread, feeling pleasantly full and warm.  
It was not dreadful as he had thought, it was quite good in fact, spiced with paprika and kummel.  
He sipped a little wine, which contrary to the soup was really unbearable, acid like vinegar, and stretched lazily.  
He felt like yawning but knew from experience it would not be a very good idea, considering also that the heat of the room had worked wonders on his headache.  
Slowly, he rose from the chair and approached Betsy the fat ferret.

The older waitress eyed him half-suspicious and half-worried. "I hope you do not have fleas." she complained, leading him trough a small door and along a cramped passageway, candlestick in hand.  
"I do not!" the young fox exclaimed, deeply offended: he had always cared much for hygiene.  
The ferret eyed him doubtfully and shuffled her shoulders.  
As if she could care less about the wounded ego of some scrawny fox.  
She climbed a flight of wooden stairs, which creacked ominously under her excessive weight, and retrieved a ring with keys from under her apron.  
Panting from the exertion, she stopped in front of a small wooden door, unlocked it with an old rusty key and opened it with a flourish, showing the room to the weird masked customer.  
Cautiously, he peeked inside: the room was small and had a low ceiling like the rest of the tavern but it had a small brazier and a bed.  
A real bed, like the ones the monks had in Redwall.  
"Satisfied?" Betsy asked, arms crossed under her disgustingly large and flaccid breasts.  
"Perfect." the fox replied hoarsely, stepping into the room.  
"Very well. - the maid said drily, turning on her heels – Have a nice stay."

He muttered a "Thanks" and closed the door, bolting it firmly and putting his pilgrim's staff across it, so it would fall loudly if anyone tried to crash into the room.  
Satisfied with the safety measures of his hideout, he collapsed on the bed dressed as he was, too exhausted to bother with niceties such as disrobing.  
The bed felt soft as a cloud to him, accustomed as he was to sleeping on the ground.  
The young fox rolled over to rest upon the good side of his face and curled upon himself, burying himself in the blankets.  
Warm, well fed and exhausted, he felt good for the first time in what fel like centuries.  
Tomorrow I will try to find my mother's old contacts among the local rogues_, _he_ v_owed, then fell asleep almost instantaneously.


End file.
